


Hold Me, Love Me, My Dear

by Obviously_Sherlocked_Anya



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cute, Fluff, John likes it, M/M, Sherlock's Touchy, Touch, Ugh, too much cute oops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 14:17:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1553369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Obviously_Sherlocked_Anya/pseuds/Obviously_Sherlocked_Anya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock was averse to the human touch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold Me, Love Me, My Dear

**Author's Note:**

> From a kink meme prompt that I'm too lazy to rediscover. God, this was such a fun prompt, dear lord. <3 xx

Sherlock was averse to the human touch. The prickling impression of deleterious gelidity from the foreign body, coaxing goosepimples to rise upon the taut skin of his nape, it was indefinitely unfavourable. The slimy experience of their bodily smoulder, it slithered across the expanse of his bare skin, exposed to their unwelcome contact. Sherlock detested all that rubbish. He, instead, stuffed himself beneath cuffed shirts and dense trousers and leather to sheathe his fingers from any other distasteful touch from an unworthy colleague. 

John Watson was neither unworthy nor a colleague, however.

John was an odd person, certainly. He didn’t hold a grotesque smoulder, no, it was an ardent fever, a flush of cheer slathered across those candied curves, simply succulent and downy, an honest embodiment of sunshine. His hair, a handsome concoction of greying-blond, entertained the intimate thought of melting through Sherlock’s fingers, the strands dripping along his knuckles prettily. His nose, a cute, rounded button of a thing, was always tinted a teasing cerise. The ruddy complexion of his cheeks, it made his heart trip over itself. His lips were thin, commonly curved into a hint of a smile, the carnation colour of the flesh enticing with the twinkle of gloss, given his tongue’s licking habits. 

Sherlock’s upper lip gave a needy tremble to the transparent thoughts, though, they were knocked back into realisation as padding footsteps rattled through him.

“Sherlock? I’m home,” a heady rumble of an exhale and a decadent, smoky vocalisation, one all, entirely, John’s. He’d been jogging up the steps to the flat, then. Must be perspiring, too. Sherlock gave a dry swallow, which stung his throat as a tepid shot of rum.

“Sherlock?” John’s head peeked out the doorjamb of the kitchen, quirking an eyebrow to the bemused, disorganised detective. “You all right?” 

“I, uh... Fine,” Sherlock stammered, head hung for his own, personal security. “I’m fine, John.” 

John was toying with the contents of his grocery bags, fishing out the jam and bread and milk; necessities must be sheltered in the home of Sherlock Holmes, unfortunately. 

“You sure, mate? You look a bit shaken.” 

“Do I? Hadn’t noticed.”

“Mm, should’ve. Maybe a shower will help? Somethin’ to cool the nerves?”

“No, no, unnecessary. Showered this morning.”

“A nap, then? No, no, never mind, you slept yesterday.”

“I could use a nap, actually.” 

“Really?”

“One condition.” 

“Which is?” John inquired, careful not to disrupt Sherlock’s speaking as he sealed the cupboard door, filled up with little cans and foods that were off-limits to Sherlock’s grabby, ‘for science!’ hands.

“You join me.” 

John blinked. Join him? Join Sherlock, to nap, together, sharing personal touches?

“You want me...to join you...as you nap?”

“You may rest also.” 

“I... I’m sorry, what? You’ve never wanted to be that close to me.”

“Of course I have, John. I am always close to you, do keep up.”

John parted his lips, the retort on his tongue, only to be shoved and swallowed down. He decided not to press such a matter.

“I-I suppose I cou—”

The prominent vibration of Sherlock’s mobile shattered their moment, which was peculiar enough in itself.

“You going to answer that?”

“No.” 

“Why?”

“It’s Lestrade.”

John looked perplexed.

“Isn’t that...good? He might have a case.” 

“I...” Sherlock’s eyes grew big, and he lunged towards his mobile, scrambling to answer before the ringing ceased.

“Hello, yes, Lestrade?” he greeted hurriedly. John gave a wee chuckle to that. Sherlock was a bloody wreck today, and it was becoming quite amusing.

“Murder on Kingsway. Homicide. Bloody mess,” Lestrade laughed wholeheartedly, the muffled ‘literally!’ by Anderson having sounded.

“I’m on my way. Bring John?”

“If you’d like. Don’t take too long, lovebirds, it’s chaotic here.”

Sherlock made a choked noise, and tossed the mobile into the sofa. 

“What’d he say?” 

“Case. Come along, John.” 

.~*~.

Sherlock decided that, after about a five-minute-long deliberation period, that it was the butler, and wished to leave immediately. He collected John’s hand in his own, and entwined their fingers, before sticking the enlocked limbs beneath his coat lapel, to keep warm.

“S-Sherlock!”

“Yes?”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Nothing particularly note-worthy.”

“You’re  holding my hand .”

“And? John, you’re making no sense.”

“Why are you _holding my hand_ , Sherlock?”

“It feels nice.” 

Oh, hell, that made John as pink as a giddy schoolgirl. 

“I-It does?” 

“Yes, obviously.”

“Really?”

“Yes, John, Christ, you’re slow on the uptake today.”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?” he sounded bothered. 

John pressed an airy, shy kiss to those plump lips.

“I think it’s nice, too.” 

“Really?”

“Yes, Sherlock, do keep up.” 

After that, well, Sherlock’s bed was certainly kept warm that night. **  
**


End file.
